The Run Up To Christmas
by BlueMoonOnTheRise
Summary: The festive season at 221B. Sherlock!AdventCalendar.
1. Nice, boring Sunday

**Let's hope I can stick to this. Enjoy :)**

John was sitting in the armchair flicking numbly through the channels when Sherlock bounded in. The detective looked quite manic – a dead chicken dangled from his fist, showering the floor with feathers, and he was grinning. His hair was flecked with water droplets, glinting in the dull afternoon sun.

John eyed him warily.

_That_ look had a habit of ruining his Sundays. Sherlock had never quite understood the concept of having a nice, boring Sunday, drinking tea and silently dreading the Monday to come.

Actually, he couldn't be entirely sure he'd had a 'nice, boring Sunday' since he'd moved in with the man. Apparently today was not going to be the exception.

"John, it's December!" Sherlock announced proudly. His hands jerked wildly to express his enthusiasm, and the chicken crunched against his leg. John stared.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"_It's December_," he repeated, looking at John expectantly. When the other man still made no reaction, Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes again, following his flatmate's line of sight.

"Oh, this," he said dismissively, letting the bird flap limply in his hand. "It's for a case. There's been a spate of farm robberies. I wouldn't bother, but it's from Mycroft's suppliers, and he threatened to invite me to his Christmas party if I refused. I really don't know why he couldn't sort it out himself, the problem is devastatingly simple."

John blinked, and tried to ignore the feathers sailing benignly onto the carpet.

"If it's so 'devastatingly simple'," he asked, "then why are you showering the _bloody_ flat with feathers, Sherlock?"

He could have sworn Sherlock pouted.

"Apparently rock solid logic does not constitute 'concrete evidence' anymore," Sherlock told him, sitting on the arm of John's chair. "Although how a man who failed his A-Levels can pronounce whether or not something is evidence still evades me. His business would have failed a long time ago were Mycroft not propping it up."

Sherlock continued in this vein for some time, his rant evolving into barely audible mutters. John turned back to the TV, and watched a few seconds of 'Grand Designs'. They were really making a meal of applying that too-expensive wallpaper.

"It's December?" he reminded Sherlock, turning from the screen.

"Oh yes, December," Sherlock said, standing. "I thought you'd like that."

"It's been December for four days," John pointed out, grinning. Sherlock scowled, and went to slam the chicken on the table. It was silent for a bit.

"We should get a tree," Sherlock said. His mind sounded quite made up.

"Okay," John agreed.

The two men surveyed each other for a few seconds. Finally, Sherlock gave a curt nod, and turned his attention to his chicken. Surprised, John gave a faint smile and turned away too, in time to see a woman bemoaning the fact that she could not, in fact, afford turrets on her new house.

Maybe he would get his lazy Sunday after all.


	2. Christmas List

**Hi again! :) Hope someone's liking this. Reviews are always appreciated. **

It had been half an hour, and considering the time frame, John really hadn't managed to do much. His card list so far ran to:

_Sherlock._

_Mrs Hudson._

_Harry._

_Sarah._

_Lestrade._

_Molly._

_Mike._

_Mycroft _

_Anthea?_

He chewed the end of his biro, and glanced down the list. It wasn't much, and he had the niggling feeling that he'd left off someone important.

Well, besides his parents, but he wasn't entirely sure of their address and even Harry was likely to be no help with that.

He would have thought it common courtesy to inform your only son of your contact details, but the ones he'd got at present didn't work. He'd tried several times after moving in with Sherlock, planning to tell them of his own relocation. He hadn't seen either of them since leaving hospital, and he had to admit to feeling a little stung at their staggering lack of interest.

Clearing his throat, John returned his focus to the paper. He had yet to move onto present ideas, which was always a nightmare. It was sure to be made no easier by the recent additions to his list, not least Sherlock.

He glanced across the room at the man in question. Sherlock was tapping away at the keyboard of his laptop, his face the usual mixture of concentration and boredom – an 'easy' case, then – and John was almost certain he'd deducted precisely what he was doing. That was why he was doing it on paper and not his laptop. Paper he had a chance of concealing; John knew better than to assume that anything on his laptop was private.

Sighing, he looked away from his flatmate, and begun his present list.

_Sherlock – _

_Harry – _

_Sarah – _

_Mrs Hudson – _

"Sherlock?" he called, looking up. "Should I get Mycroft anything?"

"I wouldn't."

John rolled his eyes and added Mycroft to the bottom of the list.

God, he had no idea.

He inhaled once, and tried to think reasonably.

He'd call Harry later. She always wanted something, and preferred to ask for something she wanted than be surprised. Whenever anyone tried to surprise her, they always got it spectacularly wrong. Good. Harry was sorted.

Sarah was a bit trickier, but he had overheard her talking to the receptionist about a CD she'd wanted. He couldn't remember for the life of him what it was, but it was a start. Although, that alone was probably a bit…maybe some perfume, or a necklace or something? He'd have to think about that one.

He was completely stumped on Mrs Hudson. She deserved something nice, the amount that poor woman put up with; she was a bloody _saint_. Again, he'd have to think about that one.

John glanced at the remaining names. Sherlock and Mycroft.

He couldn't help but think that Sherlock would probably be happiest if he killed someone in a suitably interesting way, but murder was probably out of the question for Christmas gifts. And, Mycroft…God. The image of an umbrella kept appearing in his brain. Well, if all else failed…

He snuck another look at Sherlock. The detective had shut his laptop and discarded it on the floor. He sat bolt upright on the sofa, arms curled around his knees. His eyes were unfocussed.

"Sherlock…?" John began, uncertainly.

"Mmm?"

A frown crinkled John's brow, and he exhaled slowly.

"Nothing."

Silence. The doctor sat quite still, weighing up the benefits of asking Sherlock what he wanted. They probably far outweighed the negatives.

"Sherlock, what- "

The ghost of a snicker cut him off from across the room.

"No, John," Sherlock told him, quite placidly. "It's far more amusing to watch you struggle."

"Great, thanks."

He heard the other man get up, and hastily flung a hand over his list. The detective loomed over his shoulder, pale eyes flashing, inquisitive.

"Can I look?" he asked, holding out one hand.

"No!"

"John, it's a list of names."

"Not it's not!"

"Yes it _is_," the taller man persisted, trying to prise John's fingers from the paper. "You haven't written down any ideas yet, you never wrote more than one word in succession – _names_. Besides, I thought we might do presents together."

John stared.

"No! That's weird. And stingy."

Sherlock gazed down at him, eyebrows raised.

"In what way is the concept 'weird'? I note that your vocabulary deteriorates to teenage girl standard when you're agitated, but I'll let that pass…"

"Sherlock," John said, standing up so that he was not quite so far beneath his flatmate. He ignored the jibe. "Doing cards or presents jointly is a couple thing. We are not a couple. Therefore, it's weird."

"How is living together less a 'couple thing' than trying to save money?"

John crumpled his list into his pocket, and resisted the urge to bang his head against a wall.

"You are not trying to save money; you're trying to get out of making any effort!"

Sherlock stared at John silently.

"Jesus Sherlock! Whenever we leave the house together we get people asking if we're together. This will not be rectified by sending out joint Christmas cards! It will make it worse! I do not want to have to explain to Anderson _again_ that we are not a bloody couple."

"You and Sarah are a couple."

"Yes, I know. But we've only been together for two months. It's too soon."

"I wasn't suggesting anything."

There was a pause, and Sherlock added something under his breath.

"What was that?"

Grey eyes blinked innocently.

"_Sherlock_."

"I said: it's probably best you two do joint cards this year," Sherlock said, his face splitting into an almost wolfish grin as he darted away. "You're unlikely to get another opportunity."

The resounding crunch as the mug ricocheted off Sherlock's head was particularly satisfying.


	3. The Brandy Experiment

**Please don't be offended by Sherlock's opinions ;) Otherwise, enjoy & review if you can :D x**

It was a well-known fact that Sherlock Holmes was less than proficient at everyday tasks; if you wanted to avoid food poisoning, him cooking was something you would definitely seek to prevent.

Sherlock himself had several issues with this 'fact'.

One was the population's definition of 'fact'. A fact was something that was true.

Another was their logic. Did they really think – with the finesse he displayed in various complicated and delicate tasks – that he was literally incapable of far simpler processes? With the significant drop in the accuracy needed for the more common activities, it took little brainpower to realise that he could do them. All he lacked was the motivation.

Humanity's greatest asset was the brain. Laundry and cooking wouldn't stretch it, exercise it, _challenge_ it. Humans weren't fast, they couldn't run, hide; their senses were astronomically tiny compared most species – so why did people insist on wasting their race's one great advantage? Why let such a magnificent instrument rot?

Nonetheless, the point stood. Sherlock Holmes was more capable than most of doing any task he chose.

Including making Christmas cake.

Largely, he would have deemed the idea pointless. Christmas was a religious celebration, one he neither particularly enjoyed nor believed in. Religion interested him only as far as being a great motivator, a comforter, something that shaped a person's life, whether positively or negatively.

It was just an abstract idea, a whisper, and he didn't have time for that sort of nonsense.

Nowadays Christmas had even less worth. It was an outdated tradition, now just an excuse to spend too much, eat too much and drink too much; and unless that resulted in interesting crime (which it did occasionally) he wasn't interested.

John was.

His face lit up at the lights in shop windows, the songs, the excited babble that ran up and down the streets as people bustled past, doing their Christmas shopping.

He really was unfathomable, that man.

Nonetheless, the festive season gave Sherlock the perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone: to prove he had the capacity to be thoughtful, and the capacity to apply himself to everyday tasks and not kill anyone in the process.

He'd borrowed the recipe from Mrs Hudson; an old sheet of paper folded in two and stashed in a dog-eared cookery book, her mother's.

He'd also visited the 24hr Tescos in the small hours of the morning, and picked up the ingredients. They were currently hidden beneath his bed, and Sherlock ran a hand through his curls, and went to fetch them.

…

John Watson was greeted with a surprisingly palatable smell when he arrived back at Baker Street that evening. Climbing the stairs to the flat, he assumed Mrs Hudson had been cooking, and smiled to himself. He climbed a little more eagerly, and pushed open the door to 221B.

Sherlock was in the kitchen. Shedding his coat, John nodded in greeting, and made a beeline for the kettle. The detective nodded back. His head lolled slightly.

"Productive day, then?" John asked lightly, filling the kettle.

Sherlock mumbled incoherently.

"Want some?" the doctor asked, not turning around.

"Nope." Sherlock announced, swaying away from the counter, and standing a little too close behind his flatmate. John turned, frowning, just as the detective attempted to rest his chin on the other man's shoulder. The resulting clash of heads sent the detective reeling away again.

"_Ow_," he told John, pointedly.

"Sherlock, have you been drinking?" the doctor asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously; finding the brandy bottle on the counter. There was only the faintest trace of amber liquid left. It didn't cover the bottom of the bottle.

Sherlock giggled.

"I made cake," he said proudly. He removed the kettle from John's fingers, steered him around, and pointed at the table. Sitting in the middle was a cake-sized foil package. "You have to let it mature," he explained.

"I know," John assured him, gently pushing Sherlock into a chair to avoid injury. "Did you put any of the brandy in the cake?"

"I can't remember."

"Bodes well," John muttered under his breath. Sherlock didn't notice. His eyes were unfocussed, thinking.

"Do you like me, John?"

The detective tipped his head backwards, surveying his flatmate upside down.

John was a bit taken aback.

"I…uh. Of course I do."

"The evidence suggests not. You won't share cards and I steal your laptop and you get annoyed when I say things wrong and…other things." Sherlock paused, and looked around the room. "Molly won't let me have kneecaps, John!"

The doctor chose to ignore the last statement.

"Well, the evidence is wrong."

"Oh." Sherlock looked quite confused. "That's okay then."


	4. Breakfast In Bed

**This is quite short and non-festive o_O Tomorrow will be better, promise! :)**

John left the flat at almost precisely half eight each morning. It wasn't far, the clinic. That morning he'd woken a little early, and having fifteen minutes to spare before he needed to leave, he poked his head around Sherlock's door.

The detective was sprawled on his front, spread-eagled on top of the covers. He gave a small groan as the door opened, and he looked so pitiful it was hard for John to stop the upturn of his lips.

"Don't smile!" Sherlock ordered through a mouthful of duvet.

The smile morphed into a grin.

"Realised you overdid it, then?"

"I hate you. Go away."

The doctor raised his eyebrows and leaned against the doorframe.

"Toast, Sherlock?"

The detective flipped over, and winced as his head bounced back onto the mattress. He narrowed pale, bloodshot eyes.

"Really?"

"Yep."

There was a brief silence.

"Okay," Sherlock said, closing his eyes again and screwing up his face.

When the doctor had finished making the toast and brought it into his flatmate's room; Sherlock did actually deign to sit up, albeit amidst much theatrical wincing.

After a few bites, he started to look a little more human.

"Maybe I don't entirely hate you," he conceded, as John left for work.


	5. Tree Shopping!

**Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far, I'm really so appreciative :3 Hope you like!**

_Meet me outside. Hurry up. SH._

John stared down at the screen of his phone, and wondered how Sherlock had known that he'd been going to go and have a quick chat with Sarah before he left work.

_Stop wondering and hurry up. It's windy and the cabbie's annoyed. SH._

John hastened towards the door, deciding he did not want to have to deal with an irate Sherlock Holmes all evening.

The detective was true to his word, huddled next to the building as it offered some shelter from the wind; phone in hand. The breeze tugged hungrily at his coat, and Sherlock spared John one withering glare before disappearing into the cab. Sighing, the shorter man clambered in after him, and shut the door. They sped off. The route was not one he was familiar with.

"Mind sharing where we're going?" John asked. He had to admit to being a little put out.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and made a non-committal sound in his throat.

"I'm sorry?" the doctor prompted, a little aggravated.

"We're getting a _Christmas tree_," Sherlock growled, glaring at the headrest of the seat in front of him.

"Remind me why that's so upsetting."

Sherlock did not deem that comment worthy of a response, and John spent the remainder of the journey staring out the window, admiring the warm glow of the Christmas lights through the dank weather.

In fact, Sherlock only deigned to speak once they'd got out, paid the cabbie, and had meandered into the huge garden centre. It was one of those sprawling, endless ones – those that sold not only plants, but pets, tools, camping equipment, saws and drills and light fittings and any number of other things besides. The pair of them stood, blinking in the florescent lights, and Sherlock spoke.

"Lestrade didn't need me."

John was perplexed.

"I'm sorry, what? Lestrade always needs you; poor bloke."

"Well he didn't. I read about the case in the paper…precisely the kind of case he needs me for, and I wasn't asked! Of course I'd need full detailed evidence to be sure, but it seems the _Yard _–" Sherlock pronounced the word with distaste – "have solved it alone."

"So this isn't about the tree?"

"The… - no, of course not."

John smiled, took Sherlock by the elbow, and steered him in the direction the 'Christmas Trees' arrow directed.

"Then come on. What about that fisherman case?"

"Coming along nicely, thank you."

"Good."

….

A few hours later, the two men arrived home at 221B, laden with shopping. They held the tree between them, all six foot of it; the twigs sticking through the mesh scratching exposed skin. John had a large box slung over his shoulder in several plastic carriers that Sherlock had somehow melded together in one larger one.

Once the detective had cheered up, the trip had been a good one. John had had to deter him from the ten foot trees – while pretty, there was no way on earth they would fit in the flat, as John knew Sherlock was aware, and pedestrians would not appreciate a massive tree in the middle of the pavement. They'd settled for a six foot one, because Sherlock had insisted he was not prepared to be taller than the tree.

They'd probably overdone it on the decorations, but whatever they didn't use; John supposed they could offer to Mrs Hudson or Harry. He had a horrible feeling that otherwise, any unused decorations might unwittingly become part of one of Sherlock's experiments.

Mrs Hudson held the door and fussed over them; scurrying up the stairs to hold the door to their flat too, and between them, John and Sherlock hauled the tree into the living room, and into the ready cleared corner. Sherlock stripped off the mesh packaging, whilst John hovered in the kitchen and tried to help Mrs Hudson make tea.

Steaming mugs in their hands, the three of them stood by the counter and admired their handiwork.

"Looks good," John observed, grinning.

He caught Sherlock's eye, and he grinned too.

"It is an odd tradition, though," the detective mused, sipping his drink. "Bringing trees inside. What does that symbolise?"

He thought for a moment, and his face brightened.

"Murder," he decided, sounding pleased. "And concealing the body."


	6. Love, Actually

**For those who don't know, Martin Freeman is in 'Love, Actually', and plays the world's most adorable porn star. I swear this is relevant ;)**

The fisherman case suddenly seemed to take over: Sherlock had left before John woke that morning, and at ten that evening he still wasn't back. The only reason John knew he was still alive was because of the incessant stream of texts he'd been receiving throughout the day.

In fact, he was so persistent; John had had to turn his mobile off at work. When he checked it at lunch and at the end of the day, there were no less than fifty messages, both times. He'd deleted them, rung Sherlock and informed him that just because _he_ didn't have a proper job, it didn't mean everyone else didn't.

He hadn't heard from Sherlock for an hour after that.

At a few minutes past seven, just as he was beginning to worry that Sherlock too had fallen victim to the 'lake monster', his phone had buzzed in his pocket. Sherlock, asking for John's opinion on the fishing hooks on the table.

Definitely blood stained, as Sherlock obviously already knew. His version of an apology.

The detective required no further help, and John had got dinner, leaving Sherlock's in the fridge for him to find later. He'd settled down in front of the TV instead, and wished he was running around London with his flatmate.

In fact, he'd just flipped over and started watching a bit of '_Love, Actually'_ – in his defence, nothing else was on – when he heard the latch downstairs, and the unmistakable bounding gait of the world's only consulting detective.

Sherlock's face appeared around the door, cheeks flushed from the cold, his usual exhilarated grin that resulted only from working on a case plastered across his face. John gave a nod of acknowledgement, and turned back to the screen. It wasn't _as_ sappy as the title implied.

"John, you're on TV," Sherlock observed. You could hear the smirk in his voice.

"I _do not_ look like him!" John protested, cursing Martin Freeman for deciding to look so bloody similar. "You sound like Harry."

"You really do…there's quite a resemblance."

"Yeah. Right."

"You never mentioned an acquaintance with Joanna Page."

"I am not acquainted with Joanna Page – "

"Certainly looks like it."

"_And_, Sherlock, I have never ever been in any film, least of all playing a body double for sex scenes, and how the bloody hell would you know who Joanna Page is?"

Sherlock sighed heavily.

"This is Mycroft's favourite film."


	7. The Fisherman's Wife

**Only 15 days until Christmas…**

**Enjoy, and review if you are so inclined. Or even if you're not.**

John was woken the next morning by the shouting coming from the flat below. He didn't recognise the voice, and pulling the cord of his dressing gown around his waist in an attempt to look slightly more presentable, he staggered numbly downstairs and peered into the living room.

Sherlock sat on the sofa, fingers pressed together beneath his chin, an expression of distaste curling his upper lip. His eyes were deliberately glassy.

"Problem?" John asked quietly, blinking at the man standing over his flatmate. He was a few inches taller than John himself, his build too was stockier, and from the faint odour of fish, John suspected this was Sherlock's fisherman client.

"This man's a liar and a fraud!" the man declared, pointing a stubby finger at Sherlock.

The statement was so abrupt, so blunt, that John was a little taken aback.

"Please," Sherlock drawled, his voice bored. "You're confusing the truth with personal desires."

"He's framed my bloody wife!"

"Interesting choice of adjective…"

"It was that Rick character, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let him get away with it!"

Sherlock ignored the fisherman, and addressed John.

"He's annoyed because 'Rick' is sleeping with his daughter. He only brought the case to me because he suspected him. Too bad."

John nodded numbly, and the man in front of him turned almost purple with anger. Sherlock flashed a small smile. The doctor had to exercise huge restraint to avoid laughing.

Maybe it was the early hour, but John didn't notice the sudden movement that came next: all he knew was that the next moment the nameless fisherman had Sherlock by the collar, and was shaking him.

John Watson went from slightly amused to furious in two seconds flat.

"I'd advise you to let go of my friend," he told the man in front of him, seething. "And leave. _Now_."

He wasn't quite sure why his words had such an effect on Sherlock's captor, why he listened to the short little man in a dressing gown and bare feet, but he did. He flung Sherlock from him and scarpered, slamming the door and tumbling down the stairs.

There were a few seconds of silence as Sherlock rearranged his shirt, and John padded silently to the kitchen to make breakfast. He'd taken only two mouthfuls when something prickly snaked around his neck, and he felt Sherlock's presence behind him.

"Come _on_," Sherlock whined, with all the petulance of a small child. He flapped the ends of the tinsel that he held in his hands. "Decorating time!"


	8. A Strange Request

**Two weeks to go! :D Hope you like this one too :) **

"I'm off out," John called, retrieving his coat, and aiming the sentence in the general direction of the sofa.

"Christmas shopping? On a Sunday?"

John poked his head into the living room, and smiled.

"Because it's useless lying to you – yes. If it weren't, then no: off to see a movie and grab some lunch with Sarah."

When the detective made no response, John retracted his head from the doorway, and set off downstairs smiling to himself. His phone vibrated, and he pulled it out as he strode outside onto the pavement.

_Pick up some new flasks while you're out, there was an incident with my last set. SH._

…

His first stop was a nice little jewellers, a tiny shop he found tucked away in a corner of a sprawling shopping centre. Crowds walked straight past it as if it was invisible, but John spotted it instantly. It might have been the absence of garish lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows and huge brand labels, but it was far more appealing to him than the shop opposite, with huge diamonds winking from the display.

Twenty minutes later he'd made his first purchase, a thin silver necklace for Sarah, with a delicate green stone hanging from it in the shape of a teardrop. It was pretty and quite subtle, and he hoped she'd like it.

Harry was surprisingly simple in her requests this year: undecided, she'd compiled a – very long – list of shops she particularly liked, asking for vouchers. John picked several of the ones she'd sounded more enthusiastic about and slipped his purchases into the bag holding Sarah's necklace.

He continued wandering.

Walking past a display of cheap alcohol in the window of Iceland, inspiration struck. Finding a slightly more classy retailer, he picked out a nice bottle of wine for Mrs Hudson, and some shortbread. He couldn't help thinking she needed something a bit more personal, but he did have two weeks to come up with something.

By lunchtime, he was marvelling how it seemed so much easier to buy presents for the women on his list.

He bought himself a sandwich, set his bags by his feet, and was just settling himself on one of the shopping centre's plastic benches, when someone very familiar came into view. John jumped, and almost dropped the sandwich.

The jump was followed by a mad hope that, maybe, Mycroft wouldn't spot him.

When he instead headed purposefully for him, John chided himself for imagining anything Mycroft did to be unintentional. It was clearly no coincidence if they ran into each other.

Unusually, he was alone.

"Dr Watson," he said, inclining his head as he approached. He indicated the seat beside John. "May I?"

"Help yourself," John told him warily, setting his sandwich down. Mycroft didn't seem to notice the doctor's suspicion. He sat, and twirled his umbrella in one hand, the tip skimming the floor.

"I have a matter I wish to discuss."

"I thought you might."

Mycroft dealt a reproving stare, then let his eyes drop back to his umbrella.

"It concerns the matter of Christmas gifts."

John said nothing. He coiled his hands in his lap, and sat still.

"You are a generous man," Mycroft went on, "and I observe that you and my brother are celebrating Christmas."

"Yes," he confirmed, wondering where this was going.

"And, given that Sherlock displays such contempt towards me, it does not take huge calculation to know that you intend to include me in your celebrations in a small way – a gift."

John nodded.

"I have little interest in material offerings," Mycroft said. "My own income is not unreasonable, and I have little trouble obtaining those objects I desire."

John nodded again, and decided the Holmes brothers were bloody awkward.

"If you wish to get me something, I want only this: persuade Sherlock to come to my Christmas party."

"That's what you want?" John blurted, stunned, wondering why anyone would want Sherlock around a lot of other people.

"Of course. He is my only brother – Christmas is a time for family. He will celebrate with me no other way; I want him there." Mycroft paused. "Naturally, you are invited too. Sherlock has the details already."

He got up, and John stood with him.

"I'm not sure I can persuade him…"

"Nonsense," Mycroft told him, moving away. "I have never seen him hold anyone else in such regard. Good day, Dr Watson."

John blinked, but Mycroft Holmes had already melted into the crowd, and disappeared.

….

When he arrived back at 221B a little while later, John hadn't made any more headway into his present buying. He'd bought Sherlock his flasks, but was still stumped on his actual present.

The official excuse was that Sherlock would only find or guess his gift were John to buy it much in advance of the day. In truth, he was a bit stuck for ideas.

Handing the detective his flasks, and making his way upstairs to leave his other purchases in his bedroom, John decided that Mycroft was officially the least uncooperative of the two.

God only knew how he was going to manage to get him what he wanted, though.

Mind you, he hadn't specified that Sherlock had to be conscious.


	9. Picture Perfect

**This was meant to be quite light and funny, but got a bit out of hand. I blame my depressive mood. Two cases of mild swearing.**

The curtains rippled slightly, and one tiny hand poked through the join, followed by an eye.

There was a muffled cry of "Jade!" and both disappeared. The curtains billowed.

The room was filled with cheerful noise and good humoured anticipation. Listening hard, it was possible to discern stories of Christmas shopping, uncooperative aunts, spilled glitter, naughty pets and eager swapping of the roles each parent's child was taking in the play.

Unnoticed by the audience, two men slipped, unbidden, into the back of the school hall. The taller looked at the shorter in horror.

"You have got to be joking."

John nudged him in the ribs, and scoured the room for some empty seats. There were two on the back row. Given his company, the back row was probably best.

"It's not my fault you 'deleted' the nativity from your brain. It's cultural. And it's for charity."

"Can you blame me?" Sherlock whispered back, shifting in the small plastic chair. "I swear if we leave now, I will donate far more than three pounds to charity _and _I will behave myself for a week."

John actually paused for a second, considering the offer.

"John!" Sherlock pressed, his whispers becoming more urgent. "I'm in a hall of parents! I hate children! I hate parents even more! I cannot endure an evening of mediocrity built up by stupid, biased adults into the eighth wonder of the world! I _can't_."

Unsurprisingly, the people next to them gave Sherlock a rather nasty look, which he disregarded with a haughty glare. John closed his eyes, then made Sherlock swap seats with him so that the detective was on the end of the row and could upset the minimum amount of people.

He turned to the man next to him.

"Sorry about him," he said, feeling rather than seeing Sherlock scowl beside him. The man seemed about to speak, but the blonde woman beside him cut him off.

"It's fine," she mouthed. "This one's exactly the same. Who are you two here for?"

Her husband looked horrified, apparently suddenly realising that the two men beside him were likely a couple, and tried to inconspicuously lean as far away from John and Sherlock as possible.

John was indignant at the reaction, but went to correct the mistake nonetheless.

"Oh, well…"

"Daughter," Sherlock said. He put an arm around John's shoulders, and shot him a rather evil grin.

John's protests were cut off by the curtains opening, revealing a stage of terrified looking children behind a smiling headmistress.

They managed silence for the first five minutes. Sherlock did open his mouth several times during the introductory speech, but said nothing. When the woman walked off, however, he seemed unable to contain himself.

"A stage-mother if ever I saw one," he whispered, his breath tickling John's ear. John was certain the man beside him was now half sitting on his wife in an attempt to avoid them. "Well, stage-headmistress. Failed actress, desperate for the spotlight: notice how prolonged and overly sentimental her speech was? As she mentioned, three times I might add, she directed the play herself. Living through the children."

By the time Sherlock had finished his analysis, a slightly green Gabriel was addressing Mary. He kept stuttering over his lines and blushing and peering nervously into the audience.

John's heart went out to him – he'd never enjoyed participating in school plays – but apparently Mary did not feel the same. She kept mouthing his lines and tossing her head impatiently when he stumbled over them. Eventually, a teacher appeared from the wings and put him out of his misery. He got enthusiastic applause as he was led off.

"Is this how these work?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows disappearing into his hair. "You clap when things go wrong? Interesting way of preparing children for the real world."

John stayed silent. Mary was breaking the news to Joseph, with much eyelid batting and cheesy smiles to the audience. It was a bit much, really.

He glanced sideways to see his flatmate's reaction. Sherlock had slid down into his chair and folded his arms sullenly across his chest.

"Slut." Sherlock said, his eyes on his shoes.

"Please never let me hear you call a nine year old a 'slut' again," John said. He suspected Sherlock had only done so for attention, but it was still horrendously inappropriate.

"I'm not talking about the nine year old; I'm talking about the 'virgin' Mary."

"Grow up, Sherlock."

"What? Becoming pregnant without having sex or using artificial insemination is biologically impossible. Since the latter didn't exist then, she was _obviously_ unfaithful to her fiancé, or Joseph lied to protect his own honour. Either way, it's hardly the innocent tale it pretends to be."

"You are honestly the most insufferable man I have ever met."

"That is, of course, assuming it to be true."

Their argument was beginning to attract attention, and John shoved Sherlock roughly from the building.

"Considering you're so clever," John told Sherlock through gritted teeth. "You are honestly the stupidest person I have ever met. It doesn't matter if it's true! It doesn't matter if it doesn't make sense! It's tradition and it's festive and you are so close-minded you can't accept anything that can't be solved on a calculator."

Outside, the row heightened into shouting.

"I'm _bored_, John! Bored. I have no work, nothing to do, and you who claim to know me so well should have known better than to try and force feed me such pointless drivel."

"You are an incredibly self-centred, selfish, self-absorbed man."

"At least I'm not boring and drifting and just one more useless, idiotic member of society!"

"If you weren't so wrapped up in numbers and experiments, you might realise there's more to a person than their IQ!"

"Stop acting like you're better than me!"

John looked at Sherlock, gritted his teeth, and aimed his next statement very pointedly. He knew Sherlock would remember.

"Piss off," he said.

The silence was worse than the shouting, and John set off down the street alone, and didn't look back.


	10. Sherlock Claus

**Ta da! Bad mood is gone, and hopefully the festive cheer is back! Reviews are always lovely.**

The scene that morning was a particularly strange one. Sherlock stood outside John's clinic, wringing his hands, his face turning pink from the biting cold. He seemed nervous.

That in itself was enough to draw suspicion from anyone who knew him – being the more barging and accusing type, he was so sure of himself that it wasn't so much that he didn't think, more that he didn't care.

To add insult to injury, this newfound nervousness was accompanied by a Santa hat, jammed over his hair, the bobble waving in the breeze.

He seemed to collect himself; swallowed, and let himself inside.

Once through the doors, Sherlock found himself more focussed, although still slightly on edge. It was quite an alien feeling to him, and it threw him off a bit. He deduced that a large percentage of the feeling was due to the fear of rejection. He wasn't scared of talking to John, he was afraid of the other man's response.

Though, logically, John would accept the apology. It was in his nature, and Sherlock had not been the only one in the wrong the night before.

Maybe the thing that worried him was John's irritating habit of not conforming to logic and reason.

Trying to shrug the feeling of unease from him, Sherlock set off towards John's office, straightening his hat. He had a feeling that his attempts to retain some dignity were failing.

Really, Santa's choice of clothing was hardly inconspicuous.

He'd have done better to dress as normally as possible, making the chances of being spotted delivering presents minimal. In his stinging red, he could probably be seen from space.

Standing outside John's door, Sherlock remembered that Santa wasn't real, and wondered what was wrong with him.

He was about to barge in, when a woman appeared behind him, looking annoyed.

Oh good, irritating admin staff.

"Excuse me sir, do you have an appointment?"

Sherlock looked her up and down and decided she wasn't capable of being reasonable.

"Yes," he said. "Now."

He ignored her spluttering, and let himself in.

…

John Watson looked surprised, to say the least.

He also looked tired, and Sherlock wondered if that had anything to do with their argument. He took a breath, and tried not to deduce too much from John's demeanour. It was tempting, though.

When the doctor didn't say anything for a full minute, Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, and realised he had no idea where to start.

"Hello Sherlock," John said finally. His tone was dubious, and oddly formal.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock blurted. "For being so uncooperative and unimaginative and everything you said. Well, in some ways I'm not sorry because it's true – I have to only keep the _really_ useful stuff in here," he pointed at his head, "and to be honest the nativity doesn't really come into that category, because it happened 2000 years ago – assuming it did, but you can if you like."

He took a breath and ploughed on. He noted his flatmate looked stunned, and a little steamrollered.

"That doesn't matter, anyway. I do have the capacity to keep my mouth shut, and I could have done it yesterday; I was annoyed, John, and bored, and it's not an excuse but it's _me_. I need things to keep me occupied. I don't see things how normal people do: it's all logic and patterns and my brain needed something to dissect and…"

Sherlock gave John a small smile. He didn't look as if he was going to be angry again, which was something.

"I bought you a hat," he offered. "Although then I left it at home on the skull, because I was thinking and talking, and the skull had to fill in for you."

"You're wearing a hat," John pointed out.

"This is my hat!" Sherlock protested. "I am officially being festive."

John smiled then, and that was definitely a genuine one.

"Your skull was filling in for me?"

"Yes. You're far more efficient, actually. Skull just sits there."

There was an awkward silence.

"Can I come back?"

Sherlock refrained from pointing out that John was the one who walked off.

"I'll probably need to think out loud at some point, so you'd better."

"Sorry for being so irritable."

"That's okay."

They grinned at each other, and Sherlock left, his Santa hat bobbing happily as he went.


	11. Party Time!

**Short one today. (:**

When John broke the news, people standing outside could have been forgiven for thinking a small explosion had taken place inside 221B Baker Street. After all, it wouldn't have been the first time.

"No!" Sherlock yelled, stamping his foot and folding his arms in a way not dissimilar to a moody three year old. "Under no circumstances will I go to Mycroft's party. He promised me that I was excused, and I don't _want _to."

"You don't think that's an incredibly immature response?"

Sherlock gave John a look of what could only be described as loathing.

"Look," John reasoned. "Nobody said you had to enjoy it, just that you had to show."

"I don't like Mycroft; he dislikes me. Give me a good reason why I should turn up and be ridiculed by a bunch of ridiculous old men in suits."

"He's your brother, he wants you there."

"He'll have an ulterior motive, I can assure you."

John tried to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

"He seemed genuine," he said. "You're his family, and regardless of whether or not he likes you, he wants you there because it's Christmas and that's how things work."

Sherlock sniffed, and unfolded his arms.

"Christmas seems like one big excuse for people to do stupid things they wouldn't normally do."

"Hmm," John mused, smiling. "Also, do you want to come with me to the Barts Christmas do on Friday?"

If ever Sherlock had been capable of murder, John would have wagered it was then.


	12. Let It Snow

**Largely a dialogue chapter :) Enjoy & preferably review :P**

"John," Sherlock said, not looking up from his laptop. "Did you know that the chance of a white Christmas in London is only 6%?"

John sank further into the armchair and tried to muster some interest. His eyelids seemed ludicrously heavy.

"John!" Sherlock protested, nudging the doctor with his foot, and frowning. "Listen to me!"

"I always listen to you, Sherlock."

"No you don't! In fact you frequently have no memory of our conversations."

John yawned, and let his eyelids drop. It was very comfortable here.

"I do," he mumbled. "I'm just not a genius like you."

Sherlock's eyebrows disappeared into his hair, and he flashed a small smile.

"You must be tired."

"Shut up, clever-clogs."

There was silence for a minute. Sherlock used the time to prod John with his toes again; and the doctor opened his eyes and squinted.

"Yes?"

"We were talking about snow. You like Christmas. Pay attention."

"The skull's still wearing my hat."

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, and groaned with frustration.

"The skull's prettier than you," he muttered, moodily kicking the armchair.

That woke John up.

"You think the skull is prettier than me?"

Sherlock gave a triumphant grin, and withdrew his feet, in case John decided to take out his disappointment on them. He drew his knees to his chin, and tried to stop smiling.

"I have a skull," John pointed out. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure if the indignation was genuine or not.

"I'm sorry," he said, mock-serious. "You are very pretty."

That drew a grin from John, too.

"Shut up…" he cleared his throat. "So, snow?"

"Yes. Why is it associated with Christmas, when its appearance on the day is so infrequent?"

Sherlock wasn't sure if the pause was deliberation, or John nodding off again.

"Because it's pretty – like me."


	13. Mistletoe & Wine

**A little slashy this chapter! Well, a lot slashy. Review?**

**(slash will not be a recurring theme, nobody panic!)**

As it turned out, Sherlock did agree to accompany his flatmate to the Bart's Christmas party.

John suspected this was down to several factors.

1. Sarah's sister had unexpectedly dropped by to visit, so Sherlock could focus his entire attention on annoying John.

2. There was the possibility of an opportunity to persuade a tipsy Molly to supply him with body parts.

3. Open bar.

4. If he behaved atrociously at this party, he hoped Mycroft would withdraw his own invitation.

John was fairly convinced the last reason at least was unlikely to be fruitful; he was pretty sure extreme stubbornness was a family trait.

Nonetheless, all this had accumulated to the point that Sherlock was standing in the bathroom, sighing, and attempting to get a particularly determined piece of soot from his chin.

However, he had refused to wear anything other than his customary suit. John supposed he looked smart at least, if perhaps a little too much so.

He himself had fished his nicest jeans and shirt from the reaches of his wardrobe, and had just decided he didn't care that there was a resistant sprig of hair that was sticking up defiantly.

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom at that moment. His chin was very pink, and he was already looking as though he regretted his decision.

"Remind me why people throw these 'work' things."

John smiled.

"It's so everybody can get very drunk, make out with their boss and do various other indiscriminate things that their colleagues can tease them about for the rest of year, until the next party."

"What an excellent idea," Sherlock replied sarcastically. "Remind me why _we're_ going."

John rolled his eyes, and explained it for what felt like the millionth time.

"Because Mike invited me, and unlike you, I am not rude enough to refuse."

….

In the cab, John had to endure several minutes of long-suffering sniffing and sighing before Sherlock spoke.

"I bet I can drink more than you," he said suddenly, a grin spreading across his face. Definitely a challenge, there.

"Sherlock, I was in the army."

Sherlock's grin widened.

"I was a drug addict!"

John tried to ignore that comment.

"We aren't eighteen years old, anyway."

"Scared I'll beat you?"

John imagined the crowds of people enquiring about his injury, the army, Afghanistan. He felt Sherlock's eyes on him.

"Damn it," he muttered, turning to look at the man beside him. "You're on."

….

When they arrived, they were greeted by an already slightly tipsy Mike, and John was quite glad he'd accepted Sherlock's offer. He spotted Molly across the room too, perched on a windowsill with a drink in her hand, peering around. She looked nice, and nervous, and John made a mental note to keep his companion away from her. Molly encountering a drunken Sherlock was likely to end in tears – and not for the consulting detective.

Mike drifted away to speak to a group of people John didn't know, and John himself was swiftly dragged away by Sherlock towards the bar.

….

After an hour, the pair were giggly.

After two, Sherlock was getting quite touchy-feely, and John couldn't remember why it should bother him.

In three, they had to hold onto each other just to stand upright.

They swayed across the dance floor like this for about fifteen minutes, until Sherlock started squinting intently across the room, at something green tacked above a doorway.

"Mistletoe!" he observed, clutching John and grinning. "What does that mean? It means something. I know, because I'm _right_."

"I know!" John chirped up, flinging his arms around the detective's waist to keep his footing. "You have to kiss me."

"No I don't."

"You _do_," John insisted. "You have to kiss me because you saw mistletoe and it's the law. Otherwise Lestrade will arrest you and…"

He was cut off by Sherlock's mouth hitting his with some force.

He missed, to some extent, catching the left half of John's mouth instead of all of it, but his tongue flicked out to explore what he'd missed.

"Don't lick me!"

"I'm _not_," Sherlock whined. "When you kiss people you have to use your tongue, stupid."

John looked a bit surprised.

"Oh," he said. "Okay."

The second attempt was a little more successful, although not what you'd call dignified: all tongues and clashing teeth. Sherlock thrust his fingers through John's hair and became quite forceful, his tongue exploring the other man's mouth with some enthusiasm.

John was vaguely aware that was some reason he shouldn't be doing this, but the combination of alcohol and Sherlock's tongue was making it impossible to remember why. He thought it was mainly the tongue. Whatever the reason was, he was quite sure that he didn't _want_ to stop kissing Sherlock.

It was Sherlock who pulled back the second time.

"I'm thirsty," he complained.

"Me too," John agreed. They took a few shaky steps towards the bar.

"Why have we not done this before?" he asked, arms around the detective's neck.

"I don't know," Sherlock replied. He frowned. "Maybe if we have another drink we'll know!"

He gave his flatmate another rather clumsy kiss, and they set off in the general direction of the alcohol.

The rest of the evening continued in a similar fashion. Their behaviour did not go unnoticed: by the time they staggered away for home a teary Molly was doing shots at the bar and pouring out her soul to the bartender, and Mike Stamford was staring into the bottom of his glass, and wondering if his drink had been spiked.

John and Sherlock didn't seem to notice. Nor did they notice that the vehicle that pulled up on the pavement was not a cab, but in fact a sleek, low, black car.

"221B Baker Street, thanks!"


	14. The Morning After

**Safe to say, this was pretty fun to write. Any feedback welcome :) **

The overwhelming feeling when John woke was pain. Largely in his head. It felt as though someone was working a blunt knife into his skull, and twisting it.

His eyes still shut; he registered that were he not so distracted by the pain in his head, he might appreciate the warm, comfy surface he was lying on.

He inched his eyes open, wondering what on earth had caused him to feel like this. Maybe Moriarty had blown something up again.

However, opening his eyes, he came to realise that he was in fact lying in what could only be the world's brightest room. The knife in his head jerked and stabbed and he let out a feeble moan. He had yet to identify the comfy surface he was lying on, but the cruel throbbing in his head was proving a distraction.

Inching his head upwards, he spotted a tall dark figure, sitting on the sofa.

Recognising him, John gave a slight yelp and tried to jump backwards, but ended up flopping back down onto his resting place.

"John, if you don't want me to throw up on you, I'd advise that you stop thrashing about."

That was the moment he recognised his resting place.

Oh God, why was he sprawled across his flatmate? On the floor?

"Sherlock?" he groaned. He couldn't muster the energy to look to the sofa again. "Mycroft?"

"Good morning, Dr Watson. Sherlock."

He really had never appreciated how loud Mycroft's voice was. He gave a huge wince, and Sherlock whined in protest.

"Coffee," he managed, numbly. He rolled off Sherlock, and started tentatively towards the kitchen. The journey was far, far more painful than he thought it should be. He returned rather queasily, leaned against the sofa and put his head between his knees. Sherlock was still lying on the floor. His face was contorted slightly, wincing as John moved.

"What happened?" John asked. He addressed the floor, not wanting to move more than absolutely necessary. He felt Mycroft shift his weight on the couch, and saw Sherlock slowly lift himself off the floor. Something shifted in his memory.

"You," he accused, eyes moving towards where Sherlock's legs were visible.

"What?"

"This is your fault."

"Why?" the detective asked dully, apparently able to speak only in monosyllables.

"You. Your 'I bet I can drink more than you' thing."

There was a moment of beautiful, glorious silence. Mycroft went and ruined it.

"Am I correct in assuming that neither of you have any memory of the previous night other than your copious alcohol consumption?"

John heard Sherlock's breath hiss between his teeth in frustration.

"Is there a point to this visit, or are you here purely to be obnoxious?"

"Could you two please stop using such long words? My brain hurts."

It was a measure of Sherlock's discomfort that he couldn't even manage a snide remark to that. John took a sip of his coffee. It made him no more nauseas, which he took as a good sign.

"I suppose neither of you are interested how you ended up sprawled on the floor of your living room, then?"

"Of course we're interested," Sherlock snapped. "Either tell us or go away."

In that moment, John sincerely wondered if he actually wanted to know. Having said that, they were both fully clothed, at least, which hopefully was a good sign.

"There is some rather excellent youtube footage already, if you're interested. It's not specifically of the pair of you, but you are both extremely conspicuous in the background."

John groaned. Sherlock snapped again.

"Just tell us and go away."

"Well – "

John looked up at Sherlock, meeting his eyes for the first time that morning. They weren't as alert as usual, and rather bloodshot.

They gasped, simultaneously. John felt as horrified as Sherlock looked. Mycroft smiled benignly.

"I see you have remembered. Excellent. Up to which point?"

"The party…" John said, nervously.

"Fine. I had you picked up myself, escorting you back here. Leaving you on the sofa, I proceeded to go and make coffee, in an attempt to extract some sense from you. When I returned, you had, unfortunately, resumed your…earlier activities. I almost left, but you both fell asleep shortly after, falling off the sofa in doing so."

Sherlock flicked his eyes back to meet John's. The army doctor thought the clear grey looked duller than usual.

"Do you have any idea the amount the idiots at the Yard are going to make of this?" Sherlock asked. He aimed the question at his flatmate, ignoring his brother entirely.

"They probably won't see it," John reasoned.

"Trust me John – inadequate as they might be at solving crime, I can assure you that they will be able to instantly find the one drunken video of us."

Mycroft cleared his throat.

They both ignored him.

"Two," he corrected. Sherlock scowled.

"Brilliant," John groaned, taking another tentative gulp of coffee. "How the hell am I going to tell Sarah?"

Sherlock huffed, and flopped back down onto the floor.

"How about: 'I got very drunk and snogged my flatmate'. Repeatedly."

The bickering descended into silence again, and Mycroft rose, apparently to leave them to their misery. As he reached the door, he turned back, his gaze fixing on Sherlock. A more sane, less hungover person might have been intimidated, but Sherlock's eyes just gazed dully into space.

"I came simply to inform you that my own invitation to both of you still stands. Nonetheless, I expect far more sociable behaviour from the pair of you…not only was your display of affection particularly inelegant, many of my guests are regrettably less liberal minded than the staff at St. Bartholomew's. Good day."


	15. Sparkly

**This one is a little silly, but I'm in a silly mood. Week to go!**

Entering the flat that morning, the only adjective that really suited it was – well, _glittery_.

Glittery.

Glittery was not a word John was used to associating 221B Baker Street with. Messy – yes. Dangerous – yes. Explosive, haphazard, and full of chemicals – all yes. Glittery – no.

Admittedly, it had got more glittery over the past few weeks – there was still some tinsel left that Sherlock had yet to accidentally burn, or melt with acid; there were the lights hanging off the tree and the baubles, too. Largely, the glitteryness was still limited to the tree.

'Was' being the imperative word in that sentence. Definitely past tense.

The entire floor seemed to have taken on an unearthly shimmer – the depth of the spilled glitter deepening around Sherlock's desk. The detective himself was nowhere to be seen, and John moved through to the kitchen, frowning.

Sure enough, Sherlock was in there. He'd cleared the kitchen table completely, rolled his shirt sleeves up above his elbows, and was bent over a mass of paper and glitter. A pair of scissors had been abandoned to his right; his face was the picture of concentration.

"Morning," John said, edging past his flatmate to get to the toaster.

He peered into the breadbin.

"We're out of bread," he observed, watching Sherlock warily. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock said nothing. John helped himself to some museli.

"This," Sherlock announced suddenly, holding up his creation. He smiled proudly.

John stared. It really was quite something. A large paper star, crafted somehow so it was entirely 3D, with a really quite intricate design on it, applied with glitter and glue.

The doctor intended to say something positive, but he was a little stunned.

"Why?" he said instead.

"Our tree doesn't have a star," Sherlock explained. "I was sure something was missing. I pinpointed the problem at about five this morning, and given that no suitable retailers are open at such a time, I had to rectify it myself."

"It took you – " John checked his watch "– four hours? It's beautiful, Sherlock, but wouldn't you have been better off sleeping?"

Sherlock sighed, leaned back in his chair, and settled his hands behind his head.

"Dull," he said. "Do you notice the different designs on either side?"

"Of course I do," John replied, flipping it over.

"They symbolise us," Sherlock explained, taking the ornament from John's hands, and pointing. "Your side is striped – like that jumper you enjoy wearing – and has a heart on it. For fear of sounding sentimental, you're definitely the more moral half of this partnership. You'll notice I decided to do a real heart as opposed to the symbol: more appropriate regarding your medical background."

John stared, remembering the messy glittery attempts at Christmas cards in his youth.

"You are actually amazing," he heard himself say. "That's astonishing."

Sherlock smiled.

"I'll pretend not to be offended that you sound more impressed at my skill with glitter than at my real talent," the detective remarked, smirking. "Anyway, my side's essentially the same idea: the blue weave the same as in my scarf, with a brain. It's not entirely representative of my skill, but being my main tool in my work, it seemed appropriate – and it goes with the heart."

John grinned at him, quite astounded. Sherlock smiled back, and disappeared to attach his masterpiece to the tree.

"I made two, by the way," he called from the lounge. "It occurred to me that it would be difficult to view both sides simultaneously when attached to the tree. The second can hang from the ceiling."


	16. Season Of Goodwill

**Day 19! Enjoy. Reviewers get imaginary biscuits. Because who wouldn't want one of those?**

The surgery looked particularly festive as John emerged into the reception at lunchtime. He hadn't really had a chance to notice that morning; Lestrade had called Sherlock in for a new case, and not only had the detective taken ten minutes to be persuaded that, no, John could not call in sick, he had spent a further ten asking John's opinion on various subjects, most of which he'd suspected had very little to do with the case. As a result, he'd almost missed his first appointment, and had not noticed the tinsel in his charge towards his office.

Now, however, he could appreciate that it looked very nice: red and gold twisted around the reception desk and framing the ceiling in the waiting room. The Darkness' 'Don't Let The Bells End' floated gently through the building. John smiled, leaned against the wall, and waited for Sarah.

She emerged a few minutes later, escorting an elderly gentleman through the doors and towards his car, carefully avoiding the patch of ice on the way to the car park. She threw a grin over her shoulder at John, and returned swiftly, brushing water droplets from her clothes.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Let me get my coat."

….

Lunch was nice, but John couldn't quite quell _that_ anxious thought niggling at the back of his brain. He felt dishonest.

God, he really had to tell her, didn't he?

_Not_ using Sherlock's phrasing, though.

"If I tell you something, can you not be mad at me?" he blurted.

Excellent start. Jesus…

"Uh oh," she replied. She smiled, but it was definitely a nervous one. "That's never a good start to a sentence, John."

"It's not a big deal," he assured her, realising too late just how defensive that sounded.

Sarah raised her eyebrows and folded her arms. She looked almost reproving, but she definitely looked worried too.

"You know the Bart's Christmas do…"

"Yes."

"Well, Sherlock and I went."

"That's great, John."

He took a breath.

"Well…we got very drunk – his idea – and well then he spotted some…we ended up – kissing. A bit. There was a lot of alcohol involved, Sarah, and if it makes you feel any better we got picked up by his brother and got a lecture from him in the morning. And it was just Sherlock."

There was a horrible, horrible silence.

"Okay," she said. John couldn't tell whether or not she sounded mad.

"Just thought it would be best if you heard it from me."

She said nothing.

"His explanation was far less apologetic."

Still silence.

"Was that a good 'okay', or a bad 'okay'?"

He fell silent too, and watched her carefully.

"Just 'okay'."

"Oh."

"I think I'm okay with it."

John didn't realise he'd been holding his breath, but the uncontrollable sigh of relief seemed to confirm it.

"I'm annoyed," she said. "I am annoyed. But I think I can deal with it, because I honestly don't think you'd do the same with anyone but Sherlock."

John laughed, unsure whether or not he should be offended by that. He settled on eternally grateful.

"As a man, I want to object to that," he said, pleased the worst was over. "But in all honesty, you're probably right, God help me. It doesn't matter anyway, because it will absolutely not happen again."

Sarah actually managed a halfway convincing smile.

"Good."

* * *

><p>John's good mood at Sarah's acceptance of the situation was not shared by his flatmate when he returned home. Sherlock's mood could probably only be described as 'black'.<p>

"I hate people," he informed John, as the doctor let himself in. "Every single idiotic one of them."

John raised his eyebrows.

"Feeling festive, I see."

"She forgave you, didn't she?"

John did a double take.

"Sarah? Uh, yeah."

"Your girlfriend is sickeningly understanding."

Given Sherlock's mood, John decided not to push his luck at that moment, and ask that Sherlock at least pretend he could tolerate Sarah – he instead rolled his eyes, and flopped into the armchair.

Sherlock watched him.

"How was the case?" John asked.

"Easy. Simple. _Dull_."

"Done?"

"Obviously. Do you think Lestrade would cover for me if I murdered Molly?"

John was a little taken aback.

"_Molly_?"

Sweet, innocent, lovely _Molly_?

"Yes, Molly," Sherlock snapped. "Anderson went to the morgue today, and guess what sweet little besotted Molly told him?"

"So you _have_ noticed!"

Sherlock glared.

"Inept as I might be in most social situations, a monkey with no eyes would have noticed as much," he told John dispassionately. "It doesn't matter anyway, because now thanks to her the entire Yard is gossiping about us, and such inane drivel does nothing to aid my concentration. It'll only get worse once the imbeciles learn to use the internet, and find that video."

He heaved a sigh, and went back to scowling at the Christmas tree.


	17. Playing With Fire

**If the chapter before last was silly, then this is the dictionary definition of ridiculous.**

"Sherlock!" John yelled, looking around frantically. It was dark, and there was a hell of a lot of flickering orange. The temperature had skyrocketed. "Sherlock!"

No reply. John swore under his breath, and continued yelling.

"I would have thought even you would recognise candles when you saw them."

Sherlock's voice emerged from beside the tree, where he crouched on the floor, tending to something there.

"Candles," John repeated, running a hand over his face, and breathing hard. "Right."

The panic ebbed away. It was replaced by an overwhelming sense of disbelief.

"Some kind of witchy ritual?" he asked, a nervous chuckle emerging, unbidden. "Jesus, Sherlock, have you any idea how much of a fire hazard this is?"

Candles covered every surface imaginable, flickering on tables, above the fireplace, on Sherlock's desk, even creeping onto the floor. The flat was fringed with flames, wax dripped everywhere, and somehow, nothing was on fire. Yet.

John took a breath, and tried not to jog anything. Sherlock smiled, and got up off the floor.

"It's an experiment," he said, straightening his jacket. "A festive one."

Was it not for the fact that any movement would have caused the flat to combust; Sherlock would have probably got a shove for that. Or something thrown at him. _Hard._

"What possible purpose could _this_," John gestured around, "serve?"

"I was seeing how many candles could be lit until they caused something else to catch fire. The current tally is 400, but I ran out of candles."

If ever there was a suitable time for banging one's head against the wall, John thought it was probably then.

"Why?"

"Bored. Molly hates me."

"Great. So, Molly won't give you decaying fingers, and you decide it's a good idea to set the house on fire?"

Sherlock smiled.

"I haven't set the house on fire! It's you she's got the problem with anyway; I wasn't making out with myself. Personally, I think it's grossly unfair she should take out her resentment of you on me, but…"

"Shut _up_, Sherlock!"

The detective fell silent, swinging from side to side, his hands in his pockets.

"When I ran out of candles, I did come up with a good idea," he offered.

John just stared at him, and resisted the urge to strangle him.

"We should blow them out! Like on a cake."

They started at opposite ends of the flat: Sherlock by the fridge and John next to the front door. It evolved into a race, the pair working their way towards each other – running past the windowsills and the tables and chairs and every other conceivable horizontal surface.

"I can't breathe!" John protested, dropping to the floor to extinguish the candles near the tree.

They continued running and blowing out candles.

"Me neither!"

By the time they met over the fireplace both were giggling and clutching stitches and were extremely lightheaded. Sherlock head-butted John in his haste to blow out the final candle.

"201!" he announced proudly. "I win!"

John reeled away, clutching his head, and laughing.

Sherlock grabbed him to prevent him falling, and they collapsed side by side on the sofa, still giggling uncontrollably.


	18. Day Off

**Hello! Hope everyone's (still) enjoying the festive season :) Watched 'The Blind Banker' yesterday, so everyone's characters are a bit refreshed now. Good-o.**

It was nine o' clock in the morning, and something was buzzing. Loudly.

Phone. Right. Brilliant.

Taking a moment to appreciate the relatively late time of his awakening, John rolled over, and snatched his phone up from the dresser. He looked blearily at the name flashing on the screen, and marvelled that Sherlock hadn't woken him before now by blowing something up.

Half an hour later, John hastened down the stairs, to find his flatmate sprawled across the sofa in his pyjamas, lazily flicking dust from the belt of his dressing gown. He looked up when John entered, frowning. His expression was suspicious.

"Oh no," he said, rising halfway into a sitting position.

"I haven't said anything!" John protested. He pocketed his phone. "But go on. What am I going to tell you?"

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted. "But with that expression, I doubt it's good."

John smiled, and shook his head.

"My parents are coming down to stay with Harry and I invited them to come and visit tomorrow."

Sherlock gaped.

"_Here_?" he asked, his voice incredulous. "John, I can't have hordes of people disturbing my experiments! What if we have a case?"

John left it a few moments before answering, letting Sherlock deduce that he was not to hold his experiments in greater regard than John's family. He did fall silent from his panicked rant, although couldn't quite muster the good grace to look embarrassed.

"No, not _here_, I'm not trying to kill them off." He paused. "We'll meet here, and go out for a meal. I did say 'we' on the phone, so I think Harry at least is expecting you, but it's fine if you don't want to. Can always take Sarah."

"I'll go," Sherlock agreed.

….

It being his day off, so it was that John Watson found himself sitting outside Lestrade's office at 2 that afternoon next to a grouchy consulting detective. In part, he suspected this was revenge for making Sherlock come to dinner tomorrow night, although in fairness, he had given him the choice.

"How long could one possibly _endure_ talking to Anderson for?" Sherlock grumbled, staring unabashed through the glass at the two men. "I mean, I'm surprised he knows enough to maintain a conversation as long as this."

John elbowed his friend in the ribs, and tried not to grin.

"Behave, Sherlock."

Lestrade did see them eventually, looking tired and fed up, and not overly thrilled to see Sherlock. John couldn't quite blame him – if you were having a bad day, you probably didn't need to be harassed by Sherlock Holmes.

"Right," he grunted. "Who's died?"

"No one," Sherlock told him, his voice mildly confused. Lestrade sighed.

"Fine," he said. "What is it then, Sherlock? I've got a hell of a lot of paperwork to do and a bunch of incompetent prats who've decided to call in sick and go Christmas shopping or something. What?"

Sherlock sighed.

"If you expose them, they'll have significantly more trouble than you."

"Yeah, I'm not going round my staff's houses because they've decided to pull a sickie. Out with it."

"I want work. Anything you've got."

Lestrade let out what was almost a growl of frustration.

"I told you, there's nothing!"

"Cold cases then, anything."

"Piss off," Lestrade told him, laughing. "You know full well we need forensic evidence to convince the courts, which is nigh on impossible to get years after the occurrence. All the defence have to say is that the evidence was contaminated and we're stuffed. I told you no."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, a look of deep disdain etched on his features.

"Ludicrous," he muttered. "Fabricated nonsense."

Lestrade smiled.

"I know, but I can't change the justice system. Ask your brother if you want help with that."

Sherlock was halfway towards a haughty reply, when he did a double take.

"_You_ know _Mycroft_?"

Lestrade blinked. John thought he looked a bit nonplussed.

"Yeah, of course I do. Comes over here every once in a while, checks I'm keeping a good enough eye on you."

Sherlock's eyebrows disappeared into his hair. John thought he looked a bit more surprised than was really warranted.

"Really?" he asked, eyebrows still raised. "_Interesting…_"

He swept from the building, leaving John to shrug hopelessly at the DI, and hurry after him.


	19. The Watsons' Christmas Dinner

**Prepare for Sherlock POV, family dinner and extremely loose definition of the word 'tall'. At 5'2" I have little perspective with regards to height.**

**Breaking out the shameless festive fluff. Can guarantee more.**

…**reviews? Please? ^_^**

"John!" Sherlock yelled, bounding up the stairs. He paused outside his flatmate's bedroom, and pounded on the door. "John, they're here!"

"Answer the door then!" came the swift reply, the doctor's voice somewhat muffled. A pause. "Actually, hang on, I'm ready."

Sherlock waited about ten seconds, and sure enough, one John Watson emerged from his room, his hair a little messed. The detective smirked. When his friend did nothing, he inclined his head towards the offending hairstyle and raised both eyebrows.

John scowled uncharacteristically and hurried down the stairs, smoothing both hands over his head. Sherlock followed, cackling.

"Bit rich coming from a man who looks permanently electrocuted," John muttered.

Choking, the detective caught his friend by the arm, pulling them both to a very sudden stop. They halted perilously half way down the stairs. Sherlock felt a little stung.

"Hey!"

"Shut up," John told him, wriggling away and making for the door. "You know full well you look irritatingly flawless all the bloody time."

A wide smile flashed across the taller man's features.

Sherlock struggled to rearrange his face, and he was definitely grinning a bit too broadly when John finally got to the door; and although his flatmate had his back to him, Sherlock imagined he looked particularly deranged to the family John was now greeting.

Grappling with his expression, Sherlock examined the huddle of people outside their front door.

Harry stood at the front of the little group. She was the most forward, instantly going to embrace her brother as soon as the door was opened. She looked incredibly similar to John – exactly the same height, the only significant differences being her hair (several shades darker, natural), her smile (more teeth than John's, his was more subtle), and her demeanour (far bubblier and more pushy). When she finally released her brother, her eyes flicked to the consulting detective himself. He'd managed to wipe the huge smile off his face to one more appropriate for the occasion by now, and was loitering at the foot of the stairs with a degree of discomfort, as he saw fit for the occasion.

"You must be Sherlock!" she said, giving him that same smile, and enveloping him in a similar hug. "Nice to finally meet you, the amount John goes on about you in his blog, seriously!"

She paused, looked upwards in exasperation at herself, and gave a sardonic smile.

"Oh, I'm Harry, by the way."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth crept upwards in a half smile.

"I know. You gave John your old phone."

He said nothing else, observing the scene in front of them.

Harry followed his gaze, to where John was just closing the door to keep the warmth in, and gesturing up the stairs.

Mr and Mrs Watson went first, followed by John and Harry, Sherlock bringing up the rear. He listened with interest to their conversation.

"Your boyfriend's not half bad," Harry teased quietly, nudging John in the ribs. Sherlock might have been behind them, but he could see her grin. "Done well there."

Sherlock held his breath, fascinated by the dynamic between the siblings. His eyebrows also twitched upwards at the comment, amused, and he waited intrigued for John's response.

"You do know I have a girlfriend," John reminded her, smiling gently.

"Whatever. He seems nice."

John shook his head, and Sherlock found himself grinning again.

"Yeah, he is."

They'd reached the door to the flat by that time, and John moved to the front of the group, and let everyone in.

"Make yourselves comfortable," he said, holding the door and watching as his three relatives moved past him with smiles and nods. Sherlock sidled up to where he leant against the doorway. For the first time that evening, he abandoned his examination of the other Watsons to focus on John.

"You didn't argue you with her," he observed, his face inches from his flatmate's so nobody heard him. He inched his head towards Harry, to indicate who he meant. John smiled up at him, giving a little chuckle.

"Yeah, you don't argue with my sister."

Sherlock leaned one arm against the doorframe, effectively blocking John's way into the flat.

"I've seen you argue with _Moriarty_," he murmured.

John blinked.

"Yes, well," he cleared his throat quietly. "That's different."

They both glanced sideways into the room. Three faces looked back. Harry was practically grinning, her smirk at John was so wide, Mrs Watson looked a little concerned (could that exchange _really_ have been construed as a disagreement? Really?) and Mr Watson just looked politely disinterested. His expression reminded Sherlock the most of his flatmate, with his quiet ability to just accept people, and accept oddities and flaws, because really he felt it was none of his business.

It was at least partly inherited then. Interesting.

Retracting his arm – which was still blocking John from the flat – Sherlock hastened towards the sofa where the three others sat, and recommenced his analysis of the Watsons.

Physically, the parents looked like two halves of their offspring.

Mr Watson looked almost exactly like John. His nose was a little longer, his jaw a little squarer, and his hair was much thinner; but as with John's sister, the likeness was uncanny.

Mrs Watson had the features of Sherlock's friend that his father lacked: his chin, his nose, and incredibly dark brown hair, which explained the darker shade of hair that her daughter possessed.

Interestingly, they were both relatively tall: he about 5'10", she 5'7", in contrast to their children. Sherlock guessed Harry and John got their height – or lack of it – from a more distant relative.

Preliminary observations done, the detective helped himself to John's chair so that he could get a good view of the three on the sofa without making them uncomfortable with his hovering. After several minutes of observation over his steepled fingers, and John's reappearance with the drinks, Sherlock decided to see if they were as open to his unorthodox character as John was.

"Sorry about all the wax," he said, gesturing around, where indeed most surfaces were still covered in a good layer of melted candle wax. "It was an experiment."

He saw John bury his face in his hands, and suddenly remembered he hadn't properly introduced himself yet. The doorway conversation seemed to have thrown him off a bit.

"I'm so sorry," he said suddenly, injecting as much bright politeness into his voice as he could manage. "I haven't introduced myself properly. Sherlock Holmes, John's flatmate."

He zoned out for the next ten minutes, full of too many dull pleasantries and polite questions that nobody really cared about the answers to for his taste.

….

Dull adherence to social niceties aside, Sherlock found he liked John's family. They were friendly, un-phased by his eccentricities, and like their son seemed open and honest, but not to the point of being obnoxious.

He actually found himself enjoying himself, laughing with the others, and lazily observing strangers when he tired of the conversation. Right then, he was listening with fascination to Harry and John's hissed argument over their dessert. She was trying to convince him to let her have at least _one _glass of wine; he was denying her, holding the bottle hostage, and refusing to budge.

Sherlock supposed John's aversion to arguing with Harry did not stretch to the subject of alcohol.

He could afford to give in here, though. She genuinely wanted one glass to be sociable. Having said that, he could see why John had reservations purely from the marks on his phone. Maybe sensible. He watched them for a few seconds longer, and languidly shifted his gaze to watch the couple opposite them.

Oh. Just a genuinely happy couple. Seemed a bit dull.

He moved to the table to the left of them, where one man sat eating alone. Not stood up; he clearly wasn't waiting for anyone. He didn't look upset either. He did look nervous though, glancing around every so often, chewing quickly.

John's foot under the table stopped him in his train of thought, and smile hitched back onto his face, Sherlock shifted his attention to the four people at his own table, with the story of when he pushed Mycroft into the pond. John definitely laughed the longest.

….

After what seemed like a lifetime of hand shaking and hugging, the flat was silent again. It felt oddly empty.

"Well, you managed to behave yourself at least," John commented, absently picking wax from the corner of Sherlock's desk. "Almost."

He sat on the edge of the table, hands in his lap. Sherlock loafed over and sat on the desk chair, so John looked down at him thoughtfully.

"Sorry about Harry."

"I liked her," Sherlock told him truthfully. "I liked all of them."

He watched his flatmate press his lips together thoughtfully.

"That's good."

The detective frowned, trying to deduce some of what John was thinking. His mind was definitely elsewhere. He seemed distracted.

"Are you okay?"

John started, looking at a point somewhere above Sherlock's shoulder.

"John," Sherlock said sharply, forcing the doctor to look at him.

"I'm fine," he assured him, smiling. "Pretty tired though, I think I might turn in."

Sherlock watched him go, entirely unconvinced.


	20. Christmas Eve Eve

**Almost there! I'd normally post this a bit later, but today's looking pretty hectic, and as I have to go out, I may well be crushed by all the last-minute Christmas shoppers. Still, even crushed, I'd appreciate reviews :P**

"All I want for Christmas is youuuuuu…"

John happily sang along to the radio, ripping a piece of tape from the roll, and smiling broadly.

"Baaaaby…"

He secured the tape onto the package and flipped it over, his brow creasing as he noticed the hole at one end.

"I don't want a lot this Christmas; there is just one thing I need…"

He reached for the scissors and the wrapping paper, and swiftly cut a neat square with which to fix the offending end.

"I don't care about the presents, underneath the Christmas tree…"

John secured the patch onto the rest of the parcel, took a mouthful of the mulled wine, and grinned happily at his handiwork. He stacked the gift onto the growing pile beside him.

Today…today was a very festive-feeling day.

"Of your many qualities," remarked a drawling voice from the doorway. "Singing is definitely not your greatest strength."

John looked up at Sherlock. His hair and coat dewy from the damp weather, he looked striking as always – pale eyes, dark hair, a little smirk curling the corner of his mouth skywards. The smile went to his eyes, warming their usual iciness.

"Yeah well, Slade's better," he told him, shrugging.

When Sherlock looked confused, John gaped at him in what was utter disbelief.

"If you tell me you have never heard Slade's 'Merry Christmas Everybody', then I swear to God, Sherlock Holmes, I am going to come over there and…"

"Yes?" Sherlock asked, removing his coat and scarf, and grinning wickedly.

"And _murder_ you."

"Interesting motivation," he commented, sitting down across the kitchen table from John.

Mariah continued singing, and Sherlock stole a gulp of the mulled wine from John's glass before the shorter man could stop him. John flicked a snowman label at him, and snatched the glass back.

"Well, I'm glad you approve of your death."

Sherlock stole the bottle, smirked, and took a swig.

John hummed a bit, resisting breaking back out into song. It _was_ Christmas.

"How can you have not heard Slade?" he asked, quite unable to stop the question breaking forth. "Have you actually lived in a box your entire life?"

He watched Sherlock roll those oddly pale eyes, and waited for the sarcastic response. When none came, he went back to his wrapping. Five seconds later, he felt Sherlock's fingers tugging a Santa hat on over his ears.

Looking back up, he observed an extremely smug looking detective across the table, sporting an identical hat to his own.

"I persuaded the skull to give it back," Sherlock informed him, shifting his own so that it sat better on his inky hair. "If you're going to sing to Mariah Carey and drink mulled wine, you have _got_ to wear a stupid hat too."

John smiled, rearranging his Santa hat so that it didn't ram his ears into the side of his head.

"I thought you didn't buy into the whole 'Christmas' thing," he said, quite pleased.

"Yes, well, anything is worth making you wear a red and white pointy hat."

"Thank you," John said.

There was a pause. Then, Sherlock's face split into a grin, and he stood up, looking entirely joyful. His eyes glittered.

"John!" he exclaimed, taking both of John's hands and pulling him to his feet as well. "I almost forgot! Merry Christmas Eve Eve!"


	21. Mycroft's Christmas Party

**It's a little fragmented this chapter, but it worked **_**so**_** much better than the long narrative version. Although tomorrow's not technically advent, I will do the final chapter then, so one more to go – possibly at midnight if I'm up. Hope you're all having a lovely Christmas Eve! (:**

"Sherlock! Get the damn arm out of the fridge! Jesus!"

"Really, John, it's hardly a problem."

"It's a problem because I'm leaving in five minutes to pick up the sodding turkey, and I will not put it next to an arm. Get a grip!"

….

"Have you seen Mrs Hudson?"

"No, I was moving the arm out of the fridge."

"Well she's leaving to visit her sister tonight; I need to give her her present."

"Already done. Don't mention it."

….

_Formal dress. Mummy will be there. I'll see you later. MH._

_John – please keep him off the alcohol. Don't want a repeat of last year. Or last week. MH._

…_._

"SHERLOCK _BLOODY _HOLMES! DO NOT PUT THAT ARM BACK IN THE FRIDGE!"

….

_You didn't specify it had to stay out. SH._

_Do we need parsnips? I see parsnips. SH._

_Yes. JW._

_And carrots._

_And Brussels._

_Sod it; I forgot to get potatoes too. JW._

_You're useless. SH._

_Don't push it. JW._

…_._

"You _do_ look nice."

John looked up from fiddling with his tie to see Sherlock eyeing him approvingly from a distance. Bowtie on, the consulting detective looked the picture of sophistication, something John found grossly unfair. Sherlock straightened his tie with one slender finger in the mirror as John tugged the sleeves of his jacket uncomfortably.

"Well, until someone sees you next to me, hey?"

Sherlock spun from the mirror, and glared at him reprovingly.

"I refuse to have a 'no, you look nicer' argument with you, John – but rest assured that you look completely _fine_…in all honesty I think you should wear suits more regularly."

….

"I wish we'd brought some vodka or something," Sherlock says suddenly, five minutes into the cab ride. John starts.

"Why?" he asks, frowning.

"We could have spiked the drinks. I'd love to see the Turkish Ambassador barely able to stand up."

….

_On our way. John won't let me spike the drinks. SH._

_I like your doctor friend more and more…MH._

_Hands off! SH._

….

They were greeted by Mycroft as they made their way through the second set of huge double doors (sans umbrella), and a small, dark-haired woman, whom John had no doubt was Sherlock's mother.

"Violet Holmes," she said, smiling, as Sherlock released her.

"John Watson."

He smiled back, and watched happily as the British Government and the world's only consulting detective morphed before his eyes into small boys – trying valiantly to outdo each other and impress her the most.

….

Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder as they stood at the edge of the dance floor, watching as Mycroft and Violet twirled around with elegant ease. As soon as the song ended, Sherlock jumped up, whirling his mother around in a dance so intricate, John felt tired just watching.

….

"Food's good," John mumbled, leaning his own head against his friend, and yawning. Sherlock nodded, and moved his head sideways so that it rested on John's.

….

"What's the time?" John asked quietly, as they let themselves into 221B. It was very dark, the soft orange of the streetlight spilling into the front hall.

Sherlock rummaged in his pocket.

"Ten to midnight," he whispered back. "Nearly Christmas."

John looked up at his friend and smiled, realising at the same time that he was still holding the hand that Sherlock had pulled him from the cab with. The tree lights winked happily in the dark.

"Tea?" he asked.

"Of course."


	22. Christmas Day

**It's midnight here in the UK, and officially Christmas! Wherever you are in the world, I hope you all have a very happy one.**

_The Personal Blog of Dr John H Watson._

_It feels like I haven't done an entry on here for ages…and that's largely due to one consulting detective dismissing every case he's offered as 'dull' and I'm never included in those, so they're hard to write up. But, it being Christmas Day, I thought today at least should be commemorated on here somehow._

_Actually, the fisherman case might be worth a write up…_

_No, no. Sherlock says it's not._

_Christmas has certainly been interesting with him. There's been some disastrous experiments – anyone who's been to the flat in the last few days will have seen the wax – and at points I've honestly just wanted to slam my head against the wall! Surprisingly, amongst all that, it's been one of the most fun Christmases I've had in a while, and I swear to God I've never seen anyone suit a Santa hat quite like Sherlock Holmes._

_Right now he's in the kitchen peeling carrots in that hat, and it's probably one of the best (and most bizarre) things I've ever seen, and not something I thought I would. Photos to follow!_

_Oh God, he's yelling at me to stop writing sentimental rubbish and help with the vegetables. Did I ever mention how charming he was? _

_For fear of being strangled by a consulting detective, I'll finish now, and wish any person mad enough to read my blog on Christmas Day a very Merry Christmas!_

_John – _


End file.
